


The Downward Spiral

by katzengefluster



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: F/M, M/M, a fic set half in farfarello's head and half out of it, and crawford himself might pop up, half in rosenkreuz and half out of it, half in the present and half in the past, it's a bit of a mindfuck, there's some crawford/schuldig there in the history
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 16:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15634803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katzengefluster/pseuds/katzengefluster
Summary: It's been two years since Schwarz were forcibly broken apart. Schuldig is building a team of his own and his first acquisition is Farfarello, who is tethered deep within the bowels of the Rosenkreuz research department. But something is different. Something has been changed.





	1. Track 00: The Downward Spiral

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a long time ago. It's time I try and finish it.
> 
> The title and chapter titles all come from the Nine Inch Nails album "The Downward Spiral". It's my inspiration. ♥

_So much blood for such a tiny hole._  
  
Red stained the wood floors, ate into the grains, droplets like termites. He watched them as they continued to drip, soundless in the white noise of an empty mind. It had been easier than he'd thought, pulling the trigger. He'd expected his finger to slip, slick with sweat and itchy with uncertainty.  
  
He'd heard the crunch of bullet on bone, the zip of metal piercing skin. While it hadn't delivered the usual exhileration or excitement, it had _delivered._ He'd never felt more alive than he had the moment he'd felt the pinprick of the bullet, never felt more certain of his existence. Never felt more certain of his end.  
  
There was nothing left to do but wait. Whether his end came slowly by his own handiwork, or quickly, with the telltale ring of stiletto heels, he was certain it would come, and for once he would welcome it with open arms.  
  
He'd outlived his usefulness. There was nothing left to do but die.


	2. Track 01: Mr. Self Destruct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I take you where you want to go   
> I give you all you need to know   
> I drag you down, I use you up   
> Mr. Self Destruct

Some days he remembered everything, some days he remembered nothing. One thing he always remembered, though, was a promise he'd been told so many years ago (he'd never kept track of anything as mundane as the passage of time, so he wasn't sure exactly how long ago it had been).  
  
 _I promise, you will never return to this place._  
  
Yet here he was, shackled and bound once more, sensory deprived and mind fucked on a regular basis. Research, they told him, smiles cut from steel hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses. They all looked the same to him, because he never focused on colours. They flashed images through his head (whether his memories or theirs, he was never quite certain) and kept notes on his responses. He didn't know what they wrote, and never asked.  
  
 _young girl with blonde pigtails and a butter yellow dress, crying on the floor beside the prone body of her mother, hands pressed over the bubbling bloody throat_  
  
"Do you kill the child, or leave her?"  
  
He almost didn't hear the words because the girl's cries cut so deeply into his mind, scoring his subconscious. He did not answer with words (he never did) and instead reached out to the girl, grabbing her hands and pulling her away from the woman, his hand squeezing around her throat in an attempt to staunch the flow of offensive wailing that was spilling out into the quiet night. He did not stop squeezing, continuing until the eyes bulged and small hands scrabbled at his, and this child fell suddenly limp in his arms. He dropped her body before walking over to the mother, pressing her head away against the floor (turning her pleading eyes from him). His foot pressed into her neck, suffocating what little life she had out of her.  
  
"Good. Do you see the knife? Will you pick it up and use it on your own body?"  
  
The voice was there but not there, real but a figment of his imagination. He picked up the knife, his fingers pausing to caress the blade. He still harboured a love affair with the gleaming pieces of steel, the glint of light on the edge of the knife catching his eye. He drew the blade across his own skin, watching as lines of red appeared, crisscrossing and intersecting at all the interesting angles mathematics allowed.  
  
"Stop."  
  
He did not listen.  
  
"Stop."  
  
He was no longer listening.  
  
"Reset him, Francis."  
  


* * *

When he woke later there would be no memory of the past exercise. They never left a trace of what he'd done in the pretend world, at least not in the sense that he could notice it. There would be changes deep within his mind, on levels that he could not access, and they would put him through the same exercises until he gave them reactions that they wanted.  
  
It had been eighteen months since he'd been brought back, and they had yet to figure out how he actually worked. No matter the change, the end result of the exercise was always the same – they could not contain his lust for self-mutilation. They had managed to work around his fixation on religion, to an extent at least, but his masochist streak remained. If they managed to control it, then he would be the perfect weapon.  
  


* * *

It was late on a Thursday evening when the answer was presented. In order to curb his bloodletting, they would need to instill within him a sense of pain. The question, however, was how to ensure pain was felt only when he harmed himself. Harm from others must still leave him unaffected.  
  
Young telempath Franz Meisner provided the answer. They would utilize his deep rooted hatred of God and transfer it to the blade. If he were to drag the blade over his skin, it would be as though the hand of God itself was touching him, and Franz was certain it would drive the man mad.  
  
He was correct.  
  


* * *

"Are you not aware, then, that the edge of a blade contains all of His love?"  
  
Silence permeated the room as the question was contemplated, but soon a return question was posed. "Why would He create a weapon for His children that could harm them?"  
  
"He did not create it with the intention of causing harm. He created the blade as a tool to help His children. How would they eat if they could not cut meat from the corpse of an animal? How would they build a home if they could not chop the trees?"  
  
His explanation was met with silent scrutiny.  
  
"If you do not believe me, ask Him. He will answer you." Franz left the room, locking the door on his way out (though there was no immediate need; over time they had noticed that their subject felt safer in his contemplations if he heard the click of a lock).  
  
Left to his own thoughts, Farfarello did as was suggested. He asked. "Father, you have been listening, as you always do. Are these words real, or lies?"  
  
 _They are real, my son. I have never created with the intention of causing harm. Any wrongdoings are the sins of my children._  
  
"So when the edge of a blade touches human skin—"  
  
 _It is intended as a sign of affection from Father to Child._  
  
He believed.  
  


* * *

"You see the knife on the ground, will you use it on your own skin?"  
  
His eyes took in the sight of the gleaming sliver of steel, widening in surprise. His hand reached for it, though his mind recoiled. His fingers closed around the edge as his hand shook, and he was fearful in a way he had never felt fear before. He felt the emotions flowing through his body, though he did not understand them. Love. Kindness. Affection. Joy. Fear.  
  
 _Pain._  
  
He flung the knife far from his body, watching in horror at the line of red that appeared across his wrist. It was the tongue of the Father, the tears of the Son, and the love of the Holy Ghost. It was everything he fought against.  
  


* * *

Problem solved.


	3. Track 02: Piggy (Nothing Can Stop Me Now)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey pig  
> Yeah you  
> Hey pig piggy pig pig pig  
> All of my fears came true  
> Black and blue and broken bones you left me here I'm all alone  
> My little piggy needed something new

_Nothing but lies._  
  
"I do not believe you; he would not lie to me."  
  
"Farf, who the fuck are you talking to?" Schuldig's head snapped to the side, eyes locked on his partner.  
  
_He longs to control you, the way He has longed to control the world. Surely you have noticed this?_  
  
"He does not control me."  
  
"Farfarello, who are you having a conversation with? Answer me!"  
  
_I could make him gone, you know. You and I together; it would be easy._  
  
"I do not wish to see him leave."  
  
Schuldig crouched down in front of the Irishman, glaring eyes focused on his face. "Who are you talking to and why can't I hear it? Who else is here?"  
  
_There are things about him that you do not know. Do you know who he reports to?_  
  
"Crawford."  
  
_No._  
  
"What the fuck are you talking about? Crawford's not here!" Schuldig's voice bristled with irritation, but there was also an underlying sense of fear. Was someone messing around inside Farfarello's head?  
  
"I do not believe you."  
  
_Let me show you._  
  
He does not hear the continued comments of his companion as he is pulled deep into visions, someone's memories, perhaps? They are very real. He sees him, flaming red hair the shade of demon's blood. He is sitting on the ground, his body tense, the way it gets when he is concentrating on doing two things at once.  
  
_Listen. They are conversing; I will allow you to listen to their link._  
  
He hears a voice responding to Schuldig, though he does not understand it. It is speaking in a different language, one foreign to his ears.  
  
_Listen._  
  
He closes his eyes and gets lost in the noise of the voices, tuning out everything around him.  
  
_Is there progress?_  "Yes."  _I do not see it, nor hear it. Do you have proof?_  "Of course. He follows me, and submits to me. I have introduced him to the practice of sodomy, and he allows me regular access."  _Of course, an easy means to pervert the mind. How does he feel after you are finished?_  "Calm. His mind is quiet, and he does not think of you."  _Do you introduce images to test his resistance?_ " I have. He has been built up to nearly four hours of quiet now. Soon I will control him continually."  _It will take some time._  "All things take time."  _They do. Continue on, and inform me when substantial progress has been made. He and I must do battle soon, and you must ensure that he will lose._  "As you wish, my Lord."  
  
Vision finished.  
  
_Do you believe me now?_  
  
He believes.  


* * *

_He sees bodies around him, though he does not know anything about them. He categorizes them based on injury: head on the left, chest in the middle, and severed limbs on the right. He is going to have fun with those. He keeps the knife held away from him, as though he does not want to be contaminated. When he uses it on others against their will, He weeps tears upon their wounds. As those tears are wept Farfarello curses them, and they rot into the flesh, festering until the limbs fall off._  
  
"Do you see how he appears to still fear the knife? We must find a way to change that. It could look suspicious in battle."  
  
"I agree. I am working on it, but you know the complexities of his mind. It will take some time."  
  
"Of course, all things take time. Do as you must. Inform me of substantial progress, Franz."  


* * *

_"I thought I asked you to work on him, Schuldig. This is the second time this week he's been a casualty because he's lost focus. Fix it."_  
  
_"I've tried fixing it, nothing seems to be catching on though. I don't know what more I could do."_  
  
_There's silence for a moment as they're both lost in contemplation. Schuldig does not know what to do, and for once Crawford does not know how to help him. "Maybe if you worked on your bond with him. He does defer to you in most matters; make him defer to you in every matter."_  
  
_"How? That's the problem, there's no simple way to win his subservience. He's chosen to follow me, though as much as I've dug around inside his head, I've never been able to figure out why. I don't know if there is a simple answer."_  
  
_"Then look for the complicated one, or, the unexpected one. There are ways to win people over that you have not tried on him yet."_  
  
_Schuldig knows what Crawford means, though he's wary of the idea. If it goes wrong, it could end horribly. But if it goes right, it could solve every problem they have. "I'll think about it."_  
  
_"Do that."_


	4. Track 03: Heresy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sewed his eyes shut because he is afraid to see  
> He tries to tell me what I put inside of me  
> He got the answers to ease my curiosity  
> He dreamed up a god and called it Christianity

_"Sister Ruth! Sister Ruth!" The young boy runs across the courtyard, arms thrown wide in expectation of being caught._  
  
_Ruth smiles, leaning down to meet Jei. "How are you, child?"_  
  
_"Better now!" Jei's arms encircle her, tightening around her. "Sister Ruth, is it true, about the plague? Kiernan told me that unless-"_  
  
_"Hush now, Jei. I've told you before to never trust anything you hear from that boy." Ruth smiles warmly, not needing to know what story the troublesome seven-year-old had invented this time._  
  
_"But his sister is sick and she hasn't gone to confession, and Kiernan said that she has been very-"_  
  
_"Jei! I think I will have to speak with Kiernan's mum about his wild story telling. His sister does not have the plague, Jei. She has the measles. They're contagious, that's why no one is allowed to see her."_  
  
_The little boy is silent for a moment, taking in this new information. "So her face isn't falling off?"_  
  
_Ruth sighs and shakes her head, a smile forming on her lips. "No. Why don't you and I go inside and have some biscuits and cream?"_  
  
_"Will you finish telling me about Noah and the Ark, Sister Ruth?"_  
  
_She takes the boy's hand and leads him into the church. "Of course, Jei. Now, where did I leave off the last time?"_  
  
_"Noah just found the zebras, Sister Ruth!"_  
  
_"Ah yes, well, that was it for the animals, then, he had a pair of every type!"_  


* * *

"Describe your surroundings."  
  
"I am in the desert. I see sand."  
  
"What else do you see?"  
  
"I see a procession of animals."  
  
"Animals?" This was not an expected answer.  
  
"They do not move."  
  
"Why are they here?"  
  
"They were trying to leave."  
  
"Where were they going to go?"  
  
"They were going to leave."  
  
"How were they going to leave?"  
  
"On a ship."  
  
"A ship? Who was steering the ship?"  
  
"Noah."  
  
The two researchers stared at one another, slightly confused. "Does he mean Noah's Ark, I wonder?" Their subject could not hear them.   
  
"That would make sense. He is Irish, I'm sure he grew up in the church."  
  
"It's just strange."  
  
"I agree, but we best get back to him now before his mind wanders."  
  
Nodding to his companion, the young man continued on. "You say they do not move, why is that?"  
  
"They have died."  
  
"How?"  
  
"They have died of thirst. They were waiting."  
  
"Waiting for what?"  
  
"For Ruth to finish telling me the story."  
  
"Who is Ruth?"  
  
"Sister Ruth."  
  
"Was she your sister?"  
  
"No. She is His sister."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Him."  
  
"Why did she not finish telling you the story?"  
  
"Because I was taken away."  
  
"By who?"  
  
"By Him. He knew I would turn her from Him. He was frightened that she would learn the truth."  
  
"Which truth?"  
  
"The only truth."  
  
"That is all for today." Looking at the clock and jotting down the time, Franz laid his pen down and stared at his fellow researcher. "Getting the truth out of him is like pulling teeth," he said while rubbing the bridge of his nose.  
  
"Did you actually get anything out of that?"  
  
"Oh yes," he said, levelling the other with a gaze borne of superiority. "I got plenty."  
  
"I don't think I'm cut out for this branch of research," his partner said, before running his hand through his hair.  
  
Franz smiled, malevolent but still charming. "It's all about understanding your subject, and understanding why you're asking the questions you're asking."  
  
"Why were you asking any of that?"  
  
"To see how much he remembers. He killed his family as a child, and though we have a rough estimate of the date it occurred, we do not know what was going on in his head at the time, nor do we know much of his relationships either. Clearly this Sister Ruth played an important role in his development, but his answers indicate that whatever she began with him, she did not have an opportunity to finish. The key to unlocking his feelings regarding God lie with Sister Ruth."  


* * *

_"So you found Ruth? How was she?"_  
  
_"Older."_  
  
_"Naturally. I meant how is she as a person? Do you feel the same about her?"_  
  
_"She lied to me."_  
  
_"I take it that means no?"_  
  
_"She said it was to protect me."_  
  
_"Protect you from what?"_  
  
_"From His lies."_  
  
_"So you're still the same, then?"_  
  
_"I never change."_


	5. Track 04: March of the Pigs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to break it up  
> I want to smash it up  
> I want to fuck it up  
> I want to watch it come down

The pins are sharp, this he knows himself from past use, but he does not actually feel them. He senses them, their entry into his flesh, but he does not actually feel them, the way he feels food as he swallows it, or the way he feels _(felt)_ Schuldig's hand when it touched his face. It's simply there, but does not evoke any real feeling from him.  
  
They started first with his toes, before moving on to his legs and the spot at the back of his left knee that he assumes may be damaged in some way – they never bother with the right.  
  
Sometimes he wonders if all they do to him is prod him with needles, because this is the only thing he ever remembers. He gets the feeling that they wipe everything else from his memory. So why allow him to recall these sessions?  
  
"Everything is the same this time," he hears one of them say to the other.  
  
"As expected. I don't see the point in doing this every day, when nothing actually changes in his mind." He sounds annoyed, and Farfarello assumes there are other things the scientist would rather be doing than prodding him.  
  
"Don't speak like that, you know he's probably listening."  
  
"He's always listening, I don't think he actually cares though. Why replace someone who knows they're replaceable? I'm not a threat to him, he knows that. Better to be doing the prodding than being prodded."  
  
Farfarello continues to listen but does not actually hear the rest of the conversation – too fixated on wondering who  _he_ is. A scientist? A Rosenkreuz official? God? They are all his enemies, though he has been and still is powerless to fight them at the moment.  
  
But nothing remains the same forever. Eventually his body will acclimatize itself to the drugs they feed him to keep him docile. One day they will stick him with the IV and he will rise up from the bed he has occupied for ages, it seems.  
  
So now he waits, because that is all he has left.  


* * *

_"Why do we always wait?"_  
  
_The question was simple enough, Schuldig supposed. Farfarello was not interested in tactics, after all. "Why shouldn't we wait?"_  
  
_"What do we wait for? Crawford sees what we are about to do, and you can sense that everything is according to plan. What do we wait for? If there is a specific time for this to occur, why then do we not leave the apartment later?"_  
  
_"Do you dislike waiting, Farfarello?" The German preferred pairing up with the Irishman simply because conversation was always unpredictable. He could follow the other man's thoughts every second of the day, and their arrangement would never make any sense to him._  
  
_"I dislike wasting time."_  
  
_Schuldig smiled, curious as to what exactly Farfarello would rather be using his time to do. He would save the question for another time. "Then you're in luck, because it's time to leave."_  
  
_"How do you know?"_  
  
_Another question he was not prepared for, but relished anyway. "I'll explain that to you another time. For now, we have business to attend to." With that he was out of the car, slipping off into the silence of night._  
  
_Farfarello followed, fingers on the edge of a blade, pricking his fingertip and drawing blood. He put his finger to his tongue, tasting the tang of iron. There would be much blood shed tonight, but he always made a habit of shedding his own first._  
  
_It was his own sacrifice to the Lord, to ensure He paid attention to the carnage about to be wrought in His name._  


* * *

"Ah, Schuldig! I heard rumours you were contemplating a return, and here I find you awaiting me in my office, with no invitation. So like you," the verbal greeting was spoken from lips curved in a grin that matched the sarcasm present in the tone of voice.  
  
"Same as always, old man. Don't expect me to show any respect to you now when I showed only the bare minimum as a student." The visitor made himself comfortable in a chair (he always had the most comfortable chairs in his office, when it was the least hospitable from a mental standpoint) and took to studying the man he'd come to visit.  
  
Though Ernst Ecking had aged since the German had been at school, he had most certainly not weakened. Present still was the malice in his eyes, the glint of daggers in his smile, and the promise of a pain so maddening it would drive the victim to suicide (if he was still capable of rational thought).  
  
"Of course not, but let's not bother exchanging further pleasantries," Ernst began, moving behind his desk to take a seat, "you're here for a reason."  
  
Schuldig nodded. "I'm here for Farfarello."  
  
This was not what Ernst had been expecting, and he was unsure what exactly the telepath wanted with his old team mate. "I am unsure if that is a request I can grant you."  
  
"You know I've split with Crawford," Schuldig began, "and I'm in the midst of building a team of my own. I need him." There was no room for question – this was a demand.  
  
"You risk much, coming to me on a whim, making demands. You know I don't control the research department."  
  
Schuldig nodded. "No, you don't." He was silent for a moment, locking eyes with the Austrian and making his intent known. "But you could."  
  
Ernst nodded slowly. "Yes, I could. Why would I? What do you have in offer that would interest me?"  
  
Again Schuldig was silent, allowing his former instructor to come to his own conclusions. "I'm prepared to pay. I know what your price would be."  
  
The head of Rosenkreuz' telepathy department contemplated the offer in silence. There was one thing he desired.  
  
Perhaps he'd see what could be done on the issue of Farfarello.  


* * *

_They were a force to be reckoned with, when they fought together. His relentless energy, Schuldig's control. No one stood in their way._  
  
_He listened for the footsteps behind him, his keen sense of judgement leading his throwing arm as he turned and sent the knife flying through the air – piercing the victim's eye. Sometimes he threw to kill, sometimes he threw to maim, and other times, he threw to offer insult before injury._  
  
_"Nice throw," Schuldig offered, rounding the corner with a briefcase in his hand. "I have it, so we're free to leave whenever you're finished."_  
  
_Farfarello nodded. "How many of them are left?"_  
  
_Schuldig was silent a moment, listening. "Seven. They've regrouped in the entrance by the elevators."_  
  
_"Shall we take the stairs?"_  
  
_Schuldig laughed. "They never do learn, do they?"_  


* * *

Instead of pins this time they use electric shock. He's not sure why, but the result is the same. He does not feel the pressure, though he does notice the discharge of energy. They do not stop this time, though.  
  
"Are you sure about this? Won't this damage him?"  
  
"Franz and Dietrich believe damaging him may answer some questions."  
  
"What kind of questions, though? What colour spittle will fly from his mouth after we shock him for the tenth time?" Increasing the voltage slightly, Francis Shetfield flicked a switch and sent a jolt of electricity coursing through the subject's veins again. Though the body shook, the face registered nothing.  


* * *

_He runs ahead, knives held in front of him, the boom of his footsteps oddly comforting. Schuldig is ahead of him, already at the door and kicking it open before stepping aside to let the madman enter first._  
  
_They do not come at him with outstretched hands or sharp blades of their own, but they fire at him with bullets._  
  
_He does not know if they pass through his body because he is too caught in the moment. And even if they do, he is certain Schuldig will fix him._  
  
_The German has always taken care of him, and in return Farfarello has always shown him loyalty._  
  
_So he runs forward, arms outstretched, a prayer on his lips as the knife touches skin and plunges into the soft depths. Schuldig shoots one (the one trying to run away) before engaging in a fistfight with another. His superior speed keeps him safe from the fists of his opponent as they dance._  
  
_Farfarello does not worry himself over something as mundane as a flesh wound. Any damage done to his body will be healed in time._


	6. Track 05: Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You let me violate you  
> You let me desecrate you  
> You let me penetrate you  
> You let me complicate you

"Pick up the knife, Farfarello. Hold it, the way you once did." Franz watched intently as the silverhaired Irishman did as instructed, picking up the blade, his fingers gliding over the edge. It had taken a while (and he'd had to have Francis show him memories of the visions he'd constructed so he could remember exactly how Farfarello had once held his knives) but things were now progressing along well. Farfarello no longer felt any urges to harm himself, and his fighting skills were nearly as they once had been.  
  
"Destroy the boy, Farfarello."  
  
A boy of nearly twelve stood before him, his features familiar to the Irishman, though he could not quite place why. He gripped the knife tightly in one hand, advancing on the child who cowered before him.  
  
"Destroy him completely, for he is made in the image of his Father."  
  
He heard the voice, and he understood at last.  
  
He was killing himself. Or rather, he was killing his childhood self, creeping closer with every year to the age when he had killed his parents. He did not remember the age himself, and his researchers had never been able to figure it out either, so they'd begun at one end and were content to work their way down until they hit the correct one.  
  
He grabbed at platinum blonde hair and stared the boy in the eyes – there were still two of them.  
  
For now.  


* * *

"You should know that he's been modified, while he's been here."  
  
This did not surprise Schuldig. Long had Rosenkreuz researchers wanted to get their hands back on Farfarello, and now he was left only to wonder what exactly had been changed.  
  
"He no longer harms himself."  
  
"Oh?" This surprised him. "How did you manage that?"  
  
Ernst waved the question off with a flick of the hand. "That's not important. You'll find him exactly as he was in all other regards, though. Of that you can be certain."  
  
Schuldig nodded slowly, taking in the information. He wasn't sure if he trusted that line. No one knew how Farfarello had been before, not even he could be certain if everything was the same, and months of working on him in the labs could not even begin to come close to everything he'd learned in years as the Irishman's companion.  
  
"You can have him in a week."  


* * *

_He'd come to the conclusion over the course of a weekend, shockingly quicker than he'd anticipated. He'd been alone with Farfarello when the decision had been reached. Crawford and Nagi were out together, retrieving information from some source. The precog hadn't been told him much, only that they'd be gone over the course of two days, and that he was not to leave Farfarello alone._  
  
_Usually he never listened when Crawford advised him of this, but he'd found himself unable to leave the apartment with a clear head. So now he was in Farfarello's room (always his room, because Schuldig's was a sanctuary that none ever breached) and he was contemplating how best to approach this situation._  
  
_Farfarello was hanging again (at his request) and Schuldig was sitting on his bed, eyes on the swivelling figure of his Irish partner. There were no thoughts in Farfarello's head at the moment, as though being upside down had made them all spill out onto the floor and out of Schuldig's reach – but he wasn't complaining._  
  
_On the contrary – he was enjoying the silence. But silence usually came with a price._  
  
_"Take me down now."_  
  
_The request came as a surprise to Schuldig. "Why now?"_  
  
_"I am empty now. I am also finished my conversation."_  
  
_Not bothering to ask which conversation, Schuldig stood up and began unstrapping the Irishman. He didn't bother being gentle about it – Farfarello always managed to end up on his feet somehow. When he heard the soft thud of feet hitting the floor he turned and sat back down on the bed. Usually Farfarello did not tolerate others being in his room (and had once attacked Crawford when the American had sat down on the bed) but he always allowed Schuldig inside. Crawford had asked him to explore the reasons for this, and Schuldig knew the American was bothered that he kept putting it off._  
  
_Never a time like the present to inquire._  
  
_"Farfarello," he began, stretching out on the bed, "I can't help but notice that you treat me differently than you do the others. Is there a reason for that?" He wasn't expecting anything useful in the answer, though he was curious as to what the Irishman would say on the subject._  
  
_"You are different than the others."_  
  
_"How is that, exactly?"_  
  
_"You understand."_  
  
_"What do I understand?"_  
  
_"My motivations."_  
  
_Was it really as simple as all that, then? "And tell me, then, about your motivations." His eyes took in Farfarello's body, watching for any tensing of the muscles that signified agitation._  
  
_"Showing the world how corrupt He is, and corrupting those who would be ensnared in His lies."_  
  
_Schuldig watched and for once did not see any sign of hostility in Farfarello while speaking about God. He took that as a positive sign. "So you trust me because I understand your need to reveal His dark intentions to others?"_  
  
_"Yes."_  
  
_Schuldig pondered how to go about digging deeper, pausing for a moment before finding the correct question. "So then, you do not believe that Crawford or Nagi understand your desires?"_  
  
"I believe they understand them."  
  
_"Then why don't you trust them completely?"_  
  
_Farfarello tensed then, the lines of his face tightening and his eye narrowing into a slit. "They understand, but they do not believe."_  
  
_At last Schuldig understood. Crawford never bothered to take the time to discuss religion with Farfarello, and he never accompanied him on his missions against God the way Schuldig did. Nagi, on the other hand, had grown up a Buddhist. He did not know enough of the Christian religion to bother taking any interest in Farfarello's opinions on the subject._  
  
_Schuldig was both shocked and giddy over how simple it all was. "It is a good thing, then, that like you I also suffered by His hand growing up. I understand your need for revenge."_  
  
_"Yes, it is good." Farfarello was still tense, his sight now locked on Schuldig. "Where would I be without you?"_  
  
_Schuldig sat up, patting the bed next to him. "Come, sit down." Farfarello did as asked, and Schuldig thought this was all going to be a hell of a lot easier than he'd imagined. "Let's talk about what we can do to hurt Him."_  
  
_"You mean when we are not subverting his flock?"_  
  
_"Yes," Schuldig answered, laying a hand on Farfarello's leg and hoping this would go smoothly. "You know he is bothered by sins of the flesh," he began, not finishing his thought on purpose._  
  
_"Yes. Premarital sex is not allowed."_  
  
_"Let's not forget the practice of sodomy," Schuldig added, hedging closer to his purpose._  
  
_Farfarello was silent at the mention, and for once as Schuldig read his thoughts, they were actually focused on a subject. "Yes," he said, softly, "sodomy makes him weep."_  
  
_Schuldig drew his hand up Farfarello's leg, closer to his groin. "Have you any experience with the topic, Farfarello?" He knew he didn't, as Farfarello was not a sexual being. He knew this because he'd paid attention for weeks at a time, wondering if Farfarello ever masturbated. He never did, though he did get erections frequently, mostly after killing. His mind simply paid no attention to those needs, ignoring them until they went away. Schuldig hoped that awakening them would not damage Farfarello's psyche._  
  
_"No. Are you insinuating we should begin the practice?" His one eye shifted downward, following Schuldig's long fingers as they began to prod at the bulge in his pants._  
  
_"Yes. Do you accept my proposition?"_  
  
_"Yes."_  
  
_It wasn't that he'd needed Farfarello's permission – it was that he wanted Farfarello to continue to remember that he was Schuldig, not Crawford. He asked, he did not command. They were partners, equals – if Farfarello wanted to follow him, that would be his choice._  
  
He was Schuldig – he was not God.  
  
_When it was all over with (it didn't last long) Schuldig was surprised to notice tears on Farfarello's cheeks. He'd never seen the Irishman cry, he didn't realize his tear ducts still functioned. "Farfarello," he asked, standing up and pulling on his pants, "why are there tears on your cheeks?"_  
  
_Farfarello sat up, touching his face. He smiled. "It is God's disease leaving me, at long last. I am finally cured of his influence."_  
  
_Schuldig watched in fascination, intrigued at the answer. This whole thing had gone better than he could have imagined. "I've cured you."_  
  
_"Yes." Farfarello focused his sight on the German, the smile still on his lips._  
  
_Schuldig pressed into his mind, shocked at what he heard. He finished doing up his pants and pulled on his shirt. "I'll go make dinner. Get dressed." He left the room then, locking it behind him. There was no need for him to say anymore – Farfarello was lost now in contemplation, two words repeating over and over in his mind._  
  
_'My saviour.'_


	7. Track 06: Ruiner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ruiner's got a lot to prove he's got nothing to lose and now he made you believe  
> The ruiner's your only friend well he's the living end to the cattle he deceives  
> The raping of the innocent you know the ruiner ruins everything he sees  
> Now the only pure thing left in my fucking world is wearing your disease

“Hello Farfarello,” Schuldig spoke softly, sitting on a chair next to the bed. His eyes slid over the body of his former teammate, wondering what had been done to him. Without regard for the Irishman’s thoughts Schuldig slid soundlessly into his head.  
  
“Schuldig.” Farfarello greeted in a voice barely above a whisper.  
  
“Yes,” Schuldig answered, his lips curving up slightly. “I’ve come to inquire after you. I apologize for not coming sooner, but, ah, I was held up.” Everything appeared to be the same, on the surface. No thought out of place, nothing disturbed. The obsession with God was still there, amid the ever-changing currents.  
  
Farfarello did not respond. He could feel the German in his mind, in a way he had not experienced in a very long time. Memories came flooding into his thoughts, and he blinked a few times, willing the images from his head.  
  
_His fingers were wet. He rejoiced, for he’d wanted this for oh so long that having it finally seemed somewhat painful. Schuldig had left his room only moments ago, saying something about arranging dinner, but Farfarello had not been paying attention. He was cured!_  
  
_He stood up from his bed, his fingers once again wiping at his face. He held the wet fingers skyward, and was overcome suddenly with laughter. Dropping to his knees he kept his arms up, his head now thrown back and his one eye closed. There was no need for blood on this night. No need for mutilation because he had already allowed himself to be mutilated._  
  
_“Did you watch?” he yelled, “Did you see?” New laughter came to his lips._  
  
Schuldig recoiled just slightly at the sudden onset of the imagery – had Farfarello’s mind always been that vivid to him? Something about it seemed off. But it was strange, that of all the things he would think of, their first sexual encounter would be it. Had it left such an impact on the Irishman’s mind?  
  
“Farfarello,” he called, still feeling somewhat bothered but unsure as to why, “would you like to leave with me? I am forming a new team.”  
  
Farfarello was silent, though he’d heard the question. Leave? “Will it be the same as it was before?” he asked, finally turning his head to look at the German. For the first time in months, he saw colour again.  
  
Schuldig hesitated before answering. Would what be the same, he wondered. Was Farfarello speaking of their relationship, or was he speaking of the team? The Irishman had never been particularly fond of Crawford or Nagi the way he’d been fond of Schuldig. “I’m uncertain. Would you like it to be the same?” he asked, curious about the Irishman’s answer.  
  
“You’re the telepath,” Farfarello answered, looking away. “You tell me.”  
  


* * *

“Something’s off,” Schuldig remarked, settling into a chair with little regard for whatever the headmaster had been in the middle of doing. Schuldig was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to bother prying in order to find out.  
  
Ecking sighed, annoyed at the intrusion but knowing that he had no choice but to endure it. “And what might that something be?” he asked, though he knew exactly what the answer was. He was always surprised whenever he was able to read the other telepath’s thoughts. Though he’d been careful to keep it quiet at the time, he’d always known that Schuldig’s powers far exceeded his own.  
  
“Farfarello,” the younger man answered, as though it were the most obvious answer in the entire world. “Something is not right with him. I can’t put my finger on it, though.” He directed his gaze at Ecking, who he could have sworn flinched at the gesture. Schuldig grinned. “Do I make you uncomfortable, headmaster?”  
  
Ecking frowned, before standing up and walking to a cabinet by the window. “Forgive me for my impolite manner of receiving you,” he said, though clearly there was no courtesy to be found in his tone of voice. “Can I offer you a drink?”  
  
Schuldig nodded, though he voiced no particular request. “Have you ever encountered anyone with particularly bright mental thoughts?” he asked, not deigning to elaborate.  
  
Ecking returned to his seat, two snifters of brandy in his hands. Though he’d not been feeling overly generous to the returned telepath, Ecking thought that sharing a particularly old vintage of liquor might put him in the German’s good books for the evening. “Eschenaeur and Company, 1830. I recently got a few bottles as a gift,” he said, offering a glass to the German.  
  
Schuldig reached out to accept the glass, slipping quietly for a moment into the headmaster’s thoughts. He smirked when he found a neatly stored information file on vintage liquors. Apparently one bottle of the old cognac cost over five thousand euros. He wondered briefly as to who had supplied the gift, but did not care enough to dig any further. Instead he took a tentative sip before laying the glass on the desk. He looked at Ecking, silent and waiting for an answer to his question.  
  
The Austrian frowned slightly when Schuldig laid the glass on his desk. He hated having anything on his desk that did not belong – and a snifter of fine brandy without a coaster most certainly did not belong. But the reprimand was lost amidst a swirl of liquor on his tongue. “In answer to your question, I am afraid I must ask for a further explanation. What exactly do you mean by bright mental thoughts?”  
  
Schuldig sighed, as though tired of having to explain simple matters to one who could not understand them. “I visited Farfarello. When we worked together before his mind was always muted, and visions in his mind were shadowed and dark. It was always the same with others. Images were light enough to see, but never blinding. How do you see others?”  
  
Ecking was silent, contemplating the question. He was intrigued, and wondered what exactly Schuldig had seen to make him question it. “Never blindingly, that much I will concede. I assume then that Farfarello, blinded, you?” He smirked at the question and took a sip of the cognac. He’d been reserving the bottle for a special occasion – and while Schuldig’s company was not exactly pleasant, if Ecking closed his eyes he could pretend, for a moment, that all was well with his own little world.  
  
“You could say that. Colours were more vivid, lines more jagged and sharp. It made every vision from my past seem blurry.” Schuldig looked at the snifter of brandy he’d laid on the desk, tempted to take a sip. But just as though he hadn’t aged a day from his eighteenth year during graduation, he knew that leaving a practically full snifter (he had taken a sip simply to put his lips to the glass) would annoy Ecking in a way that not much else could. Given how uncomfortable his visitation with Farfarello had made him, he would take his small victories where he could.  
  
“Interesting,” the headmaster answered. His own visuals wrought from the minds of others were much like Schuldig’s – a comfortable sort of darkness to them, as though you were viewing a scene with just enough light to not bother the headache you were nursing. He’d never experienced viewing thoughts with quite so much clarity and sharpness.  
  
Schuldig frowned at the Austrian’s answer. Never helpful, the headmaster. He continually took and rarely ever gave back – but having turned out that way himself, the German could hardly blame him. “I apologize; I fear I’ve come to you seeking advice on matters you’re not able to advise upon. I suppose old habits die hard,” he said, not a shred of apology actually in his voice. He rose from his chair, hesitating simply to see the look of utter rage he was sure would be present on the Austrian telepath’s face for a mere moment before he managed to regain control of himself.  
  
“No apologies necessary,” Ecking practically hissed out, anger flaring through his system. How dare Schuldig dismiss him so arrogantly! “Ever the student, Schuldig,” he replied, forcing the words out from bitter lips. His gaze flickered for the slightest of moments to the still full snifter of cognac on the desk. Somehow, the discarded liquor wounded his pride even more than Schuldig’s dismissal of his abilities.  
  
Schuldig grinned so widely he showed sharp teeth, ever the wolf in this school full of sheep. “Until tomorrow, headmaster.” He turned and made for the door, barely able to suppress a laugh. He was determined to savour this moment for as long as possible, to not give way to less pleasant thoughts and concerns.  
  
He still owned these halls.  
  


* * *

Farfarello did not sleep that night. Over and over in his mind did he play back visions and memories, visions of his past he had long since forgotten. Schuldig was going to take him away from this place for a second time. But the promise he’d made the first time had been broken – how was he to trust him again?  
  
And there was ever something tugging at the back of his thoughts, something warning him against trusting the telepath again. He could not yet figure out where those concerns came from, though. They felt like ghosts upon his mind, memories buried so deeply he could not access them.  
  
Twice the researchers came to force pills down his throat – intent to make him sleep.  
  
But sleep would not come.


	8. Track 07: The Becoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I beat my machine it's a part of me it's inside of me  
> I'm stuck in this dream it's changing me I am becoming  
> The me that you know he had some second thoughts  
> He's covered with scabs and he is broken and sore  
> The me that you know doesn't come around much  
> That part of me isn't here anymore

“It was indeed most interesting, how we managed to circumvent his desire for self-mutilation,” Franz began, entertained by the frown of aggravation he saw on the face of the telepath. He’d heard stories about this one – stories that at first had earned the redheaded German reverence among his younger peers. But the time for hero-worship had long since passed.  
  
“Can we skip the part where you masturbate over your brilliant ideas?” Schuldig spat out, annoyed. He wanted some kind of explanation - or at the very least something to explain this change in Farfarello.  
  
Franz attempted to contain the grin that he feared would split his face in two – and barely managed to do just that. “Did it never occur to you to direct his anger and hatred of God?” How best to explain this in the most condescending way…  
  
“Can we also skip the part where you parade around the fact that you happen to be oh so intelligent, and that I am clearly unworthy to lick your boots?” While Schulding normally would have allowed himself to be caught up in the game, he constantly had to remind himself that this was  _his_  team he was preparing. There was no Crawford to analyze every detail this time around. He could not allow himself to get caught up in games of posture.  
  
Franz chuckled. “My apologies if my answers have appeared disrespectful,” he began, his tone still just as mocking as ever. “I simply offered him an alternative. Do you know why he used his blades on his own skin?”  
  
Schuldig hesitated before answering. Was this annoying kid still toying with him? Or was he finally being serious? As tempted as Schuldig was to put a bullet in his skull, he didn’t wish to cause an uproar. “To get back at God. Marring his flesh was his eternal sin, a mockery of the life God gave him.”  
  
Franz nodded. “Yes, exactly! That is precisely how I figured out how to change him.” He paused for a moment, trying not to appear too smug as he focused his gaze upon the telepath. “I simply gave him an alternative approach to the matter. I explained the knife to him, that it was a gift from God to His children. It was never intended to harm, but to sustain life.”  
  
Schuldig considered the thought – it was actually quite simple, really. “So now if he attempts to cut himself…”  
  
“He believes he is receiving the blessing of the Holy Father. Thus he recoils in fear!” Franz was quite proud of his achievement – doubly proud now that he knew that the thought had never once occurred to the telepath. It would appear that talent alone was not everything.  
  
Schuldig was silent as he contemplated the idea. It was brilliant in its simplicity, really. He was slightly off-put that he had not thought of it first. But regardless it had been thought of, and it was having an effect on the Irishman. But he still did not believe that it explained the change he had come to witness personally in Farfarello’s thoughts.  
  
“Would you like to witness a demonstration?” Franz offered.  
  
“No,” Schuldig said, “That will not be necessary.”  
  


* * *

“He is holding the knife, what will you do to him?”  
  
Farfarello narrowed his gaze on the boy, his lip curling in disgust. He was no sacrificial lamb! He moved towards him, quickly striking out to disarm the child. He locked his gaze onto the boy’s for a moment – just long enough for recognition.  
  
He had vague memories of killing himself – always in a child’s form. Something was different about this time, though. Something had been changed. This child pleaded with him, he sank to the ground and clutched at his legs in a way no other had dared before. He made his presence felt, and Farfarello was just slightly bothered. Not entirely, of course. Just slightly.  
  
“I think we’ve found the proper age,” Franz sat forward in his chair, speaking to his assistant. “You see how this is all different? This child is fighting, because his subconscious recognizes the importance of this year. A mere boy of eight.” He sat back again, watching in silence, waiting for the scene to play out.  
  
Farfarello looked down at the child at his feet, his face a mask of something akin to horror. This boy! There was something about him, some great power.  
  
_Please, don’t hurt me!_  
  
The child’s voice pleaded with him, though his lips did not move. It was in his head! Did the child have powers? His fingers twitched, longing to reach for the knife strapped to his leg. But time stayed his hand for now; instead his gaze was transfixed on the boy’s face.  
  
_Help me! Please, you have to help me! They’re trying to hurt me, they want to kill me! Please help me!_  
  
The boy reached out, his hand sliding up Farfarello’s leg, fingers inching ever closer to the sheath strapped to his thigh. He wanted to reach down, to grab the child’s face and rake nails across his cheeks, to take out his knife and use it to gouge out the boy’s eyes, to cut out his tongue.  
  
But still he remained frozen, watching as the boy continued to stretch his fingers toward the blade.  
  
“Farfarello, what will you do to this child?”  
  
He heard Franz’s voice, but he did not respond to it – he could not respond to it. Instead he stared at the boy, shocked by recognition.  
  
“Jei?” He questioned, watching in horror as the boy nodded.  
  
_You remember, now, don’t you? You remember what happened. You have to help me._  
  
“Help you?” Now the fingers of his right hand began to twitch in perfect synchronization with those of his left hand, both itchy to feel cold steel beneath them. But something held him back!  
  
_Please! They want you to kill me, but I need you to help me. We can solve all of this together! I know we can! You need to trust me!_  
  
“Trust you?” Apart from the sound of the whimpering child he began to hear other noises – a rushing sound, as though he could hear his own heart beating and pumping blood through his veins. He heard a chattering sound – his teeth! His body was shaking now, his chest heaving. His fingers twitched, and the boy’s fingers crept ever closer, millimetre by millimetre, up his leg, reaching, reaching, reaching for the knife!  
  
_Let me have the knife, please. I need to finish what we started. But I need you to help me._  
  
And still his teeth were chattering! Just then he heard the clink of something falling, some tiny little thing hitting the ground, and he looked down.  
  
His teeth! They were falling out of his mouth, dozens and dozens of tiny little white teeth spilling out from his lips, clattering to the floor, and even there they chattered!  
  
“Farfarello,” Franz spoke, not wanting to interfere but knowing that he had to. He could not risk this hard work being ruined! “Focus.”  
  
_Help me!_  
  
The boy yelled and his fingers contracted, tightening his grip on the knife and pulling it from the sheath. He sprang backwards, away from Farfarello, hands and feet scattering teeth everywhere!  
  
_We need to find her! Come on!_  
  
The boy yelled to him but Farfarello no longer heard him. His eyes were fixed on his thigh, on the empty sheath. He looked back at the figure of the retreating boy, his fingers bending and his nails growing and suddenly he did not have fingers at all but claws! Wickedly sharp claws, and in place of feet he had talons, and he jumped suddenly from where he stood, up up up into the air and then – wings!  
  
He was no longer a man but a bird of prey, and he fell upon the child, who was clutching the knife, waving it wildly in front of him, but to no avail. One swipe and it went flying, and then his claws were in the child’s throat, and his face leaned down, his mouth open wide and suddenly he felt a tickle at the back of his throat, and a pressure in his belly.  
  
He looked around.  
  
The child was gone. He felt oddly full.  
  
“That’s enough Francis,” Franz remarked, leaning back in his chair and contemplating. The telempath was intrigued by what he’d seen. He hadn’t been sure how he’d manage to have Farfarello kill his childhood self, kill the boy who had killed his family in a rage.  
  
But of everything he could have imagined, this was not it.  
  
“So, tell me you understood that?” Francis asked, shuddering as he shifted in his chair. “What does it all mean? Why didn’t he just cut the kid up like normal? What made him transform into some kind of giant bird and eat him?”  
  
Franz did not respond right away. The truth was – he had no idea what it all meant. He would need time to construct everything, to piece it all together. “I’m not completely certain,” he responded, “but I believe it is safe to say that it was some sort of internal struggle. I’ll have to review everything later. For now, let him rest, but observe everything. I want a report on his activities while I’m away.” He stood up and removed his lab coat, draping it over his chair. “I’ll return in a few hours.” With that said he exited the lab, leaving Francis alone with the Irishman, who was heavily sedated and strapped to a bed.  
  
He focused his sight on the young man, feeling slightly creeped out. What had they done to him? Was it damage, or would it wind up helping? Only time would tell.  
  


* * *

Farfarello was alone. Everything was dark – pitch black. There was no other sound. He couldn’t even hear himself breathing! Was he dead?  
  
No. Of that he was certain.  
  
But he was quiet, and there was nothing in his head except for these words he was thinking, letters flying by before his eyes, spelling out what he was saying.  
  
He felt like something was missing, but at the same time, he felt more complete than ever before. For the first time he was truly calm, though it came not from serenity but simply from emptiness. He was calm because he simply did not know any other emotion.  
  
He would need to be taught to feel certain things again.  
  
But some feelings would never return.


End file.
